


Slow Healing Against a Purpling Sky

by Jess_B_Fossil



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Blakcksmith Felix, But Felix isn't a wild west cactus in this, Character Study, Could technically be a western... if you squint., Drama, Falling In Love, I love you if you even get that tag, M/M, Mechanic Sylvain, Modern AU, Only to buy a garage in the middle of nowhere, Pecos is a real place but its definitely not like this, Romance, Small town Texas is DEFINITELY not like this, Sylvain fucks off from home, Texas AU, This story is literally self exploration on sylvain's part and it's really fuckingg deep, VERY VERY VAGUE THOUGH, a lot of anger, background ferdibert, background mercette, but let me create paradise, but there's resolution, can it be a coming of age story if he's already in his 20s?, coming to terms, finding yourself, learning to love yourself, mechanic AU, sylvain pov, tons of unnecessary shop-name puns, vague mentions of past emotional abuse, vague mentions of past substance abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:42:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23149471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jess_B_Fossil/pseuds/Jess_B_Fossil
Summary: Sylvain watches the beautiful West Texas landscape out the window as night falls. When he leaves the cafe, he heads for the motel. It’s small but clean, just like Mercedes promised. When he wakes in the morning and walks back to the cafe, he sees an old mechanic’s garage for sale. He pauses to look at it, head tilted to the side for a moment before moving on.Sylvain meant to stay for an extra day, but he stays for a week because Mercedes is right, there’s just something about Pecos that’s homey and warm and loving.At the end of the week he pauses at the shop once more before making the boldest, stupidest, dumbest decision he’s ever made. Instead of going to the cafe for coffee and a warm strawberry pastry, he goes to the bank instead.He empties his private account and buys the damn place.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 12
Kudos: 61
Collections: Sylvix Squad Super Stories





	Slow Healing Against a Purpling Sky

**Author's Note:**

> So, confession time. SHAPS, also affectionately known as Mechanic AU, started off as a short and spicy PWP oneshot that had no context past Sylvain is a mechanic and he's going to bone his client on a car. 
> 
> But, because I'm ME, this thing grew legs and became a highly introspective character study about Dallas High-Society Sylvain, and what might happen if he finally accepted the fact that he was fucking gay. Then it morphed from a heavily angsty one shot, into a five-chaptered fic, loosely channeling the five stages of grief, as Sylvain goes on a journey to truly find himself. 
> 
> Because of the kind of story this is, and the material that it discusses by nature, I feel like some Content Warnings might be prudent: 
> 
> \- Self deprecating viewpoints and monologue  
> \- Vague references of potential emotional abuse at the hands of his family  
> \- Vague references of past substance abuse as an escape 
> 
> Thank you to my followers on Twitter and everyone in the Sylvix Discord-- but particularly [Jkrt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JKRT), [El](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elbell3618) and [Sharky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sh4rky). I've bounced so many ideas off of yall for the last month or so, and well, it's finally time to get this monster on the road. I'm really excited to share this story with everyone, because I've worked REALLY hard on it!

**_Hegira_ **

* * *

Sylvain just drives. 

He drives and drives and drives, a random radio station blasting an eighties tune that he doesn’t really like, but he’ll listen to because anything is better than the alternative. 

His father screaming obscenities like Sylvain’s never heard before, slurs and other terrible, terrible, things flowing from the man like it was second nature. His mother hadn’t been surprised-- not really-- but she’s always known Sylvain better than he’s known himself. Suddenly it makes sense, her pursed expression at girl after girl he’d bring home, arm slung around their shoulders but enough space between them that’s as wide as the Rio Grande itself. 

Sylvain’s ears are still ringing from the slam of the front door. His father yelling as he chases after him,  _ Gautier-this and Gautier-that, and we have images to uphold, and good Gautier boys marry well and pump out kids, and Sylvain will abide by this, he will he will he will-- _

His mother’s soft crying as Sylvain pulls on his leather jacket, her breath hitching because she knows the moment that he leaves that door, the moment that he  _ walks right out _ \-- it will be the  _ last _ time she ever sees him. 

Sylvain hates that it had been such a hard choice to make, but there’s a  _ point _ that you hit when you just can’t anymore, and he’s far past that, he’s been beyond that for  _ years _ . 

_ Footloose _ isn’t loud enough to drown out the deafening silence, so he turns up the dial as loud as it’ll go before rolling down the windows for a little bit of freedom. There’s wind in his wild red hair and the smell of the fresh prairie land as he speeds down old country highways. 

Dallas hadn’t been like this. Dallas had been large and loud, car horns honking and air like the backside of an industrial warehouse. Where high society knocks boots together at stupid state dinners, preening business ventures and futures full of empty marriages that mean nothing--

Sylvain pulls off to the side of the road, chest heaving and hands tight on the steering wheel, his knuckles bright white as they sear, fingernails digging tightly into his skin--

Sylvain breathes. He breathes again, eyes falling closed as he leans his forehead against the steering wheel. He doesn’t regret this. He doesn’t, he doesn’t,  _ he doesn’t _ . The mantra seems to work as he calms down, letting go and breathing out a long sigh. 

He’s gone, he’s finally gone, he’s left and he can do anything he wants, and he hates that all he thinks about is how he should go right back. That he should apologize to his father for his  _ mistake _ . Kiss his mother with a hug and promise that he’ll never leave again. 

But he doesn’t, _he_ _can’t_ , because as long as he lives in that tidy home in University Park, he’ll never be allowed to be himself and that’s--

Sylvain can’t say it. He’d finally admitted to it in a bout of anger towards his father, but despite that outburst, he still can’t bring himself to properly acknowledge it. To acknowledge his very being.

He glances at his phone. Nine missed calls, eight of them from Ingrid and one from his mother, quickly followed by a text message. It’s the latter that he pulls open and the words are kind-- the words are so kind that he can feel the prickle of tears at the corner of his eyes. 

He won’t cry though. He’s far too angry and bitter for that. 

_Always be yourself._

He wants to, he  _ needs _ to, and now he’s given himself that opportunity, so  _ no _ , he can’t go back, not when he’s finally walked free of that life and just started a new one. 

Sylvain glances at the dashboard clock. He’s driven for six hours and is nearly on empty, and as far as he’s gotten in the buttfuck middle of West Texas, he hasn’t seen a gas station in eons. He catches sight of a green billboard on the side of the road, crumpled over and dented like someone hit it and was never fixed. 

_ Pecos. Pop. 870. _

He taps his fingers along to the beat of  _ Africa _ as he thinks, mind reeling and trying to make the right choice. But there is no  _ right _ choice, there’s the  _ only _ choice, and it’s to finally take that freedom and just  _ go go go.  _

He shifts the car into gear, turning right at the sign and driving towards the burning red sun that drips into the horizon. 

* * *

“You’re not a face I’ve ever seen before. Are you from out of town?”

Sylvain jerks at the voice of the waitress, realizing that he’d been staring out the window at the purpling sunset. The woman is around his age, blond hair cut short and around her ears, and gray eyes that twinkle as she regards him with curiosity. 

“That obvious, huh?” he replies, scrubbing at the back of his head nervously. 

She’s holding a carafe of coffee in one hand, the other pressed gently against her cheek as she surveys him for a moment longer. Then she reaches out to fill his cup up. “It’s not as good as Hubert’s, but it’s coffee nonetheless.”

Sylvain’s not even sure what that means, but he takes the cup with a quiet thanks. 

“Do you mind if I sit?”

Sylvain’s surprised by the question, but motions to the chair across from him. She’s a pretty girl in her cream colored blouse and somewhat drab skirt, curvy in the right places with a bust that would be the envy of many, but as much as he tries, as much as he wants-- 

Nope, she just doesn’t do anything for him. 

“I won’t ask,” the woman says as she slides into the chair across him, “But people don’t find their way out here unless they  _ want _ to.”

Sylvain finally gets a good look at her nametag.  _ Mercedes _ . 

“I was just driving,” he tells her. “Ran out of gas and this was the closest town.”

“Where are you headed?” she asks him, serene and full of grace, and he finds that he doesn’t mind telling her, that he wouldn’t mind explaining things to her. But he doesn’t. 

“Anywhere,” he tells her instead, fingers wrapped around his mug to warm them. “Nowhere. I don’t care, really. Just anywhere that isn’t  _ there.” _

Mercedes doesn’t seem to mind the vagueness of his words, only nodding with a small little hum. And then, her lips quirk into a sly little smile and Sylvain just  _ knows _ that she’s a special one, this girl here. 

He looks back to the pink and purpling sunset and she follows his gaze. The silence stretches between them for a moment before Sylvain says something. 

“It doesn’t look like this back home. The sunset I mean.”

“Yeah, things tend to look a little bit different around here.” Then she turns to him, head cocked to the side. “As I said earlier, people don’t usually find this place unless they’re looking for it. I don’t know your story, but if you’re going  _ anywhere _ , why not stay here for a bit? Clear your mind? The motel is clean and the food is good.”

“I’ll…” He trails off, but she waits patiently, hands folding neatly in her lap and the coffee carafe steaming between them. “I’ll consider it,” Sylvain finishes.

Mercedes smiles, tapping her finger against her lips before she stands up and leaves him. Moments later, she reappears with a small plate and fork in hand. 

“I didn’t--”

“It’s on the house,” she tells him, her voice soothing as she sets it before him, napkins quickly following. And then she flits away to take care of whatever she has to in the back. 

It’s an apple pie, crusty and golden brown. He’s never really been a pie person, but he’s hungry and he didn’t realize it and it’s free and Mercedes has just  _ given _ it to him--

He doesn’t really deserve her kindness, but he takes a bite anyway. 

It’s the best damn thing he’s ever eaten.

Sylvain finishes it, watching the beautiful West Texas landscape out the window as night falls. 

When he leaves, he heads for the motel. It’s small but clean, just like Mercedes promised. When he wakes in the morning and walks back to the cafe, he sees an old mechanic’s garage for sale. He pauses to look at it, head tilted to the side for a moment before moving on. 

Sylvain meant to stay for an extra day, but he stays for a week because Mercedes is right, there’s just something  _ about _ Pecos that’s homey and warm and loving. 

At the end of the week he pauses at the shop once more before making the boldest, stupidest,  _ dumbest _ decision he’s ever made. Instead of going to the cafe for coffee and a warm strawberry pastry, he goes to the bank instead.

He empties his private account and  _ buys _ the damn place. 

* * *

Sylvain stares at his phone for a long time before he finally hits  _ call _ . The line rings three times and then picks up, and before he can even  _ get _ a word in, Ingrid’s already yelling at him. 

_ “Oh so you are alive!” _ There’s anger in her voice which is nothing unusual, but it’s different this time, there’s something about her tone that makes Sylvain wince.  _ “Which is good, because it means that when I finally see you, I can kill you myself!” _

“Ingrid, my best girl--”

_ “No,” _ she snaps. _ “None of that, Sylvain, I won’t hear any of it.” _ She pauses and he hears her take a deep breath, trying to suss out her words. He can just  _ see _ her pressing her fingers to her brow, rubbing at the skin there wearily.  _ “Three days.”  _ There’s a waver to her voice and Sylvain sighs in resignation.  _ “You haven’t texted me back and then I called your mother, and she just--” _

Sylvain starts at that. “You  _ what--” _

_ “She was crying Sylvain! Not a word from you for an entire week and then you finally decide to reach out.” _

Sylvain sighs quietly. “I didn’t call you to argue,” he says to her tiredly, already regretting the phone call.

_ “Sylvain, what have you gone and done now?” _

“I’m in Pecos,” he tells her. “Six hours away. It’s small but the people are nice, and  _ fuck, _ I had the best apple pie I’ve ever had in my life. And I watched the sunset-- you know that I’ve never really done that? It looks different here though, all purple and pink and I just--” 

_ “Sylvain--” _

“I bought this old, run-down mechanic shop. It needs a lot of work but the equipment there is solid and maybe I can finally put my useless hobby to some fucking use. You know, make a difference or something.”

_ “Sylvain.”  _ The moment she says his name though, she hesitates before asking,  _ “Are you alright?” _ Her voice is quieter, less angry and full of concern. She’s never been without her love, but Sylvain can count on his hands how many times he’s actually heard that tone and he just kind of breaks down and--

“I told them,” he says to her shakily and he can hear the hiccup in her voice, and the words that she really wants to say, but Ingrid just makes a squawking sort of sound instead. “Stuck it to the man and then I stormed out of there before he could do much else. I drove until I couldn’t anymore and I pulled off to grab gas here and I--” He sighs. 

“It’s nice here. It’s quiet and the people don’t judge, and the sunset _really_ _is_ different and it’s just kind of… magical.” 

_ “I’m coming out there-- _ ”

“No,” Sylvain cuts her off. “No, there’s no need for that.”

_ “Sylvain, you bought a garage on a whim.” _

“And oddly, I don’t regret it.” He pauses. “Yet.”

_ “Are you truly okay?” _ Ingrid asks him for a second time and Sylvain considers her question. 

Finally he tells her the truth, because there’s no point in hiding it from her. She’ll know, she  _ always _ knows, because they’ve been attached at the hip since they were four and nothing can really break a bond like that. “No, Ingrid, I’m not.”

_ “Syl--” _

“But I think that I will be,” he cuts in. “I just need some time.” He hears Ingrid sigh heavily, so he adds on, “You know that I love you, right?”

_ “Yeah,” _ she murmurs.  _ “Goddess knows why I put up with you though.” _

Sylvain laughs. “Will you keep an eye on Mom? Tell her that I got her text?”

Ingrid’s mother’s been dead for over a decade, so his mom has always just been  _ Mom _ to her. He’s not going to risk his father’s anger by texting her back. Ingrid sighs once more over the line, this time out of weariness not annoyance _. “Of course I will.” _ A pause and then,  _ “Sylvain, I hope you know what you’re doing.” _

Sylvain laughs again, this time sharp as it leaves a bitter taste on his tongue. “Oh Ingrid, I never know what I’m doing.”

* * *

Sylvain’s mornings have a routine. 

He wakes up in his modest room at the  _ Sunshine Motel _ . It’s clean and bright, sheets changed every few days because while he’s now a permanent fixture, he’s not picky either. The water is warm and because he’s the  _ only _ guest, it never runs out.

Pecos is so small that it’s a quick walk to anywhere, so he trots across the empty main street to  _ For Whom the Brew Tolls _ . He’s never put a lot of thought into his coffee, but Hubert does, and despite his gothic vampire-looking ass, he knows said coffee well. Sylvain always orders a medium  _ A Brew, Darkly _ and proceeds to utterly ruin it with as much cream and sugar as possible. 

Hubert doesn’t have fangs that Sylvain can see, but he threatens with a near snarl at the idea. Ferdinand is nicer about it though, because he understands  _ drowning the dark sludge _ as much as possible. And then, every day like the one before, he offers Sylvain a nice brew of tea which he takes without a thought. 

His next stop is  _ The Grateful Bread _ , because he’s learned over the months that Mercedes has a wicked sense of humor and a taste for classic rock, which contradicts her sweet and demure disposition. He’s barely in the door before her hand is held out, not even bothering to look away from the morning paper. He gives her the tea and she gives him a pastry, and with a smile and wink he’s on his way again. 

She’s the best fucking baker in the world and her food is literal magic, because he’s pretty sure her pie is ninety-five percent of the reason why he stayed in this dumb town. The other five percent is more important though-- life changing, really, because Mercedes is like  _ him _ . He likes it, he  _ lives _ for it because no matter how much he flirts, she’ll only laugh and smile at him in return, a wide and genuine show of affection that means nothing more than that. 

It’s not a false show of Dallas socialite wealth and, for the first time in his life, being around a woman is refreshing, not daunting. 

He’s usually at his shop by ten in the morning. The town complains that he doesn’t open early enough for a proper mechanic, but, seeing as he’s the only car garage in the town, they don’t have much of a choice. The alternative is to wait, or to ask your neighbor who claims to know how to replace an engine and before you know it, you’re dishing out twice as much because they’ve fucked up the engine valves by putting them in upside down.

Buying the shop had been, admittedly, a wild and not-so-smart decision, but Sylvain has always lived life in the fast lane and he’s never done anything by small measures. It’d taken a bit of time to get it back to working order, but the place had good bones and enough equipment for a starting point. 

The first morning he’d properly opened the place, Mercedes had greeted him with a piece of that damn apple pie again and he should have told her no, he  _ should _ have, but he super didn’t and if he could be in love with her, he absolutely would be. At first glance, Mercedes is kind of perfect on the outside, but once Sylvain had gotten to know her, he saw a darkness underneath that perfect surface that was well-recognized. It’s probably why they got on so well. 

And so, she gets her morning tea courtesy of Ferdinand and hand delivered by Sylvain himself. Ingrid would always be his best girl, but Merce was slowly wedging her way into a special place in his heart. 

She’s a balm across his heart, because he’s emptied his account to buy his dumb garage and he’s  _ drowning _ in debt. He’s been living off of the kindness of Mercedes’ free pastries and Hubert’s half-priced coffee at Ferdinand’s insistence. Hubert’s vowed to charge him double later on when he can afford it, and Sylvain isn’t unsure that he and the ginger-haired teamonger aren’t actually a match made in hell.

The Motel insists that he only pays weekly-- and Sylvain’s almost  _ certain _ they aren’t charging full price either, and the pink-haired and loud bartender at the  _ Pecos Grill _ gives him free sodas with a wink. 

Despite all of this overwhelming gratitude and immense  _ debt _ , it’s been a long time since Sylvain’s been able to be himself and… it’s a nice feeling. 

For the first time in his life, he’s kind of happy, and that’s saying something. 

* * *

The beginning of the rest of Sylvain’s life comes in the form of a foul-mouthed, dark-haired man with circles under his eyes that are sharp enough to cut a hand on. 

Sylvain’s early to the shop for once, because of a sleepless night filled with nightmares, restlessness and one angry text message from Ingrid. She’s still annoyed at him for refusing to answer her calls, but he needs time, he  _ needs time to figure things out _ . 

And while he loves Ingrid and she loves him, patience isn’t one of her virtues. 

Still, early isn’t early enough for  _ some, _ apparently. He’s barely got the key in the front door when he hears a scoff from behind, and he turns to find a man leaning against the hood of the rattiest looking Mustang he’s ever seen. Really, the car is a fucking  _ travesty _ and the vintage car-obssessed fool within Sylvain is cringing at the rust that lines the belly of the thing.

“It’s nine in the morning. Why the fuck aren’t you open?” 

Sylvain raises an eyebrow, letting go of the key and turning to the man. “I make my own hours,” he replies smoothly. The dark-haired man sneers, arms crossed in front of his chest and foot tapping impatiently against the ground. 

“Don’t you know how garages operate? You open up early enough for people to drop off their cars  _ before _ work.” The man pauses, his scowl souring even further. “I know you’re new to town, but do you even  _ know _ what you're doing?”

“As in owning a garage?” Sylvain asks. “Not a fucking clue, but if you mean working on cars, then I’m your man.”

The other man’s brows raise as if he’s briefly amused. “Doubtful.”

Sylvain nods to his own car which he keeps parked at the garage. Safer than the Motel Parking lot and since he walks everywhere, he doesn’t really  _ need _ it at all hours of the day. “That ‘68 Lambo didn’t restore herself.”

“I’m sure it didn’t, but the man that you paid to--”

“Are you here to drop off your car or not?” Sylvain cuts in and while he’s decent at hiding his anger, it’s hard with this particular  _ asshole _ of a man. The other man starts,  _ tching _ in annoyance. 

“I don’t know what’s wrong with it,” he admits, pulling himself away from the hood. “I was able to drive here, but it’s making the strangest noise and I don’t want to push it further.”

Sylvain strokes his chin in thought. “Well, I’ll take a look but I won’t know till I get under her hood.”

_ “Her,” _ the prickly man repeats. “It’s a car.”

“That’s a ‘68 Mustang and it’s  _ definitely  _ a her. You’re a dick, but you have taste.”

“It’s not mine.”

“Then whoever she belongs to has good taste.”

_ “Whoever _ is  _ dead.” _

Sylvain frowns, the mood immediately tense, but it’s the other man who relents with a long sigh. “Look, just take a look or whatever, and give me a call when you figure out what needs to be done.  _ Some _ people were expected at work three hours ago.”

Sylvain doesn’t know what kind of job would require you to be at work at literally  _ dawn _ , but it's definitely not a job that he would ever want. Before he could even reply, the man thrusts a business card and keys into his hands. “I have orders to catch up on, so make sure it’s later in the day.” 

The man doesn’t give a proper goodbye, he just turns to leave and Sylvain watches as he rounds the corner without another word.  _ Dick _ . But then he looks at the Mustang and there’s this  _ pang _ through his heart as he steps towards her. 

“Oh honey, he doesn’t deserve you,” he whispers, running his hand along the pockmarked hood. 

He pockets the car keys and looks at the business card. “Felix Hugo Fraldarius,” he says, mouth curling around the name with a little bit of difficulty, because it’s long and unwieldy. “Farrier--” His eyes narrow as he scrutinizes the words. “What the fuck is a  _ farrier? _ ” he wonders aloud, pocketing the card and glances woefully at the car once more.

“It’s okay,” he says, once more patting her hood. “We’ll fix you right up.”

* * *

Sylvain doesn’t usually trip into the coffee shop more than once a day because he values his sanity, but for the sake of the beautiful red Mustang, he’ll make an exception. 

Hubert stares at him over the espresso machine for a long moment and then says, “Why are you asking  _ me?” _

“Come on Hubie--”

“Call me that again and I’ll boil you alive--”

“I want something to bring as a peace offering. You know, to placate the man. He was angry this morning even though I opened the shop  _ earlier _ than I normally do. How’s he going to react when I explain that his timing belt is so fucked that it chewed up his engine?” 

“Sounds like  _ your _ problem, not mine.” Judging by Hubert’s tone though, an angry Felix sounds like  _ everyone’s _ problem.

“It’s not that it’s a problem, Hubert,” Sylvain eases, “I’m just asking for a little bit of help.”

“By asking what his regular coffee order is.” Hubert looks away, pouring milk into a cup before pressing it under the steam wand. “I strictly abide by Barista-Client Confidentiality.”

“Barista-Client Confidentiality--  _ That’s not even a thing _ .” 

“It is at  _ For Whom the Brew Tolls. _ Buzz off.”

“Oh don’t listen to him,” a chipper voice says from the front register and they both turn to look at Ferdinand in his ginger-haired and finely freckled glory. Sylvain’s never liked a man-bun on  _ anyone _ , but… it’s not entirely  _ awful _ on the man. His cable-knit burgundy and cream sweater is far more offensive… if Sylvain were one for fashion. “Felix usually has a blonde roast if he’s having coffee, black as his soul-- but I’ll let you in on something.” Ferdinand leans in close, like he’s telling Sylvain a secret. “He actually prefers tea--”

“Nonsense,” Hubert cuts in. Sylvain almost laughs aloud at the pout the Ferdinand throws on at the sight of Hubert’s scowl. “Seriously, promoting your  _ pansy water  _ over a nice cup of--”

“He  _ likes _ Almyran Pine needles,” Ferdinand interrupts with a subtle grin, leaning against the second espresso machine casually. 

Hubert regards him coolly over the current drink he’s working on. “Pecans, maple and hints of vanilla, with enough caffeine to fuel an army--”

“Now guys, it’s not a competition,” Sylvain tries to interject, but neither man is listening, solely focused on each other. 

It’s not the first time he thinks that they’re a weird pair. When Mercedes had told him that they were married, Sylvain had honestly thought she was joking. He can see the appeal in Ferdinand at least, with his clean skin and charming smile-- but Hubert? 

He looks like he stepped out of a gothic poetry book and settled into the wrong century. But Hubert is staring at Ferdinand, like truly staring, ignoring the milk cup in his hand as he over steamed whatever latte he was in the middle of, because he’s so thoroughly distracted by his husband. The  _ good _ kind of distracted, that makes you feel like you should be anywhere else, except for  _ right there _ and watching.

Sylvain’s one part jealous, one part annoyed, and every part tired of dealing with them. 

“I’ll just take the blonde roast,” Sylvain finally tells Ferdinand, and it’s like they’re snapped from whatever spell they were under. Ferdinand pulls away from the spare machine. 

“I’ll have to do a pour over because we don’t keep a carafe of that--”

“You’ll  _ ruin _ it--” Hubert says, but Ferdinand rolls his eyes before looking back at Sylvain.

“Three years here and he still thinks I cannot brew a cup of coffee.”

“You  _ can’t.” _

“Maybe not to your standard,” Ferdinand says tartly, eyes sweeping over the entirety of his husband, slow and pointedly. “That’s alright though. There’s plenty of things that you can’t do to a standard just as well. Felix won’t care either way because he’d prefer to directly inject caffeine into his veins.”

_ That’s _ a feeling that Sylvain can get behind. Hubert scowls at Ferdinand’s back, but it’s not without its weird brand of affection. 

“Say, Hubert,” Sylvain asks, leaning against the counter that housed the back of the machines as he scrutinizes the slightly dopey expression the man wears. “What do you find attractive in Ferdie?”

“That’s something that I  _ won’t _ answer.” A pause, followed by a threatening narrowing of the eyes. “And don’t call him Ferdie.”

Sylvain shoots him a dopey smile in return. “No promises. Also, I’m only curious.”

“I have no doubt about that.”

Sylvain frowns at the jab, but before he could ask more, Ferdinand appears at his side with a steaming cup. “On the house,” the man tells him. “I hope we’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

“What? Why wouldn’t you? I come  _ every  _ morning.”

Ferdinand laughs at that. “Yes, well, you’re also about to enter the personal space of one angry little man. I wish you luck in your endeavors.”

Sylvain pauses, eyes narrowing as he looks back at Ferdinand. “You can’t tell me he’s actually  _ scary.  _ He’s like  _ this _ tall.” He motions to just under his chin. 

To his surprise though, it’s Hubert that answers. “Felix is a nasty creature. Ferdinand is only trying to warn you.”

Sylvain blinks in surprise and then eyes the coffee warily. “Well, too late for that.” Then he smiles back at Hubert. “Besides, who can resist this charming smile?”

Hubert doesn’t even warrant that with a reply. 

* * *

Sylvain still doesn’t know what a farrier is because he’s too lazy to properly google it, but he isn’t expecting Felix’s office to be an outdoor workshop. 

He’d found the building easily enough, but had to round the entire edge of it to find the entrance, only to be surprised by a garage that was not unlike his own. The coffee is hot in his hand though and he’s already burned his thumb on dripping liquid, so he hurries into the workspace without a thought, only to look up and--

Sylvain stops dead at the sight of Felix. 

The garage here actually  _ isn’t _ anything like his own. There’s a traditional if somewhat low-tech forge off to the side, blazing hot with nearly purple flames. Felix is beside it, wearing loose khakis and stripped down to a thin v-neck shirt. The black cotton makes him look paler, but his cheeks are flush bright red with the heat of the room and he’s a literal sweaty mess, dark bangs plastered to his forehead while the rest of his hair is pulled high up into a ponytail. 

Sylvain hadn’t noticed his hair was long before. Why hadn’t he noticed that? 

Felix is working, hammer heavy in a gloved hand as he uses tongs to hold a red-hot billet still, striking down in a quick stroke, lean muscles rippling with sheens of sweat and--

There’s always one point in a person's life where they see someone and time just stands still. Like, everything else just disappears and the only thing there is the person you’re looking at, and it’s like it just punches you in the gut, because they look perfect, they feel perfect, they  _ are _ perfect, they are the  _ only _ thing that exists and it’s all consuming and it just  _ burns _ through you and--

Sylvain drops the coffee in his surprise and Felix looks up, mid stroke to watch the cup skitter across the floor. 

“Are you  _ mad _ ?” he snaps. “Don’t you know how dangerous it is to sneak up on someone working like this?”

No, because Felix is apparently a fucking  _ blacksmith _ , which Sylvain assumes the word farrier is a fancy term for and he’s probably wrong, but he’s distracted. He’s  _ very very  _ distracted right now.

Felix isn’t his type; his type is… well actually, he doesn’t really know what his type is because he’s never really given it a lot of thought because he’s so fucking repressed and--

“ _ And _ you’ve gone and made a fucking mess,” Felix continues, carefully placing the billet aside to cool. He pulls off his gloves and throws them against the anvil, and Sylvain can just  _ see _ the annoyance radiate off of him. 

“I-- uh,  _ well--” _ But he’s not the most articulate, so he drops to pick up the cup instead, rubbing at his hair sheepishly. “I thought this would be easier in person than over the phone because uh--”

“And so you brought me coffee?” 

“As a peace offering? Yeah.”

Felix sighs before pulling a rag out of his pocket and wiping the sweat off of his face. All he does is drag soot across his cheek though and Sylvain wants to reach out and rub it away with this thumb and-- 

He swallows shakily at the thought, ignoring it,  _ ignoring it _ . “So when was the last time you replaced the timing belt?” Sylvain finally asks. 

“The what now?”

“Oh wow, okay that explains a  _ lot--” _

“Just spit it out,” Felix snaps, crossing the forge to pull a towel from a cabinet. He drops it on the floor, using his foot to kick it around and soak up the spilled coffee. “What do I owe you?”

Sylvain winces. “In my honest opinion, you shouldn’t bother.” Felix stops at that, staring at the floor for a long moment, and Sylvain wonders what he’s said to put that kind of look on his face. 

But then Felix goes back to mopping up the mess without a beat missed. “Nonsense,” he says to Sylvain. “What do I owe you?”

“The timing belt is pretty shredded,” Sylvain says, leaning against an unused anvil and he hopes Felix won’t get annoyed. “I’m surprised that you made it to the shop actually, but that drive probably destroyed the engine.”

Felix looks up at that, blinking at him. “And how much is a new engine?” he asks, like he’s trying to draw out information from a five year old who keeps dodging around the answer. 

Sylvain supposes that Felix isn’t  _ entirely _ wrong in that respect. 

“Look, you probably don’t want to know--”

_ “How much?” _ This time there’s actual bite to the words, not the annoyed-yet-slightly-teasing tone used earlier that morning.

“You’re looking at like seven thousand dollars, including all the labor,” Sylvain finally says with a wince, mentally preparing himself for whatever blowback is about to happen. “And I fucking swear to the Goddess that I’m not overcharging-- I’m actually undercharging.”

Felix leans over to pick up the soiled towel, considering. “Okay then,” he replies, tossing it into a laundry bin tucked into a dark corner. “Whatever the cost.”

Sylvain flounders for a moment. “You could buy a decent  _ car _ for less. Something that’s in better shape, because even  _ if _ I fix the engine, you’ve got a lot of other problems and that’s not even including the smaller things like rust and dents and--”

“Whatever the cost,” Felix repeats. 

But Sylvain blabbers on, uncharacteristically nervous in his verbose monologue. “I mean your water pump is barely hanging on, the undercarriage is literally missing entire bolts and--”

“Sylvain--”

And it’s in the moment that Sylvain realizes that he’d never properly introduced himself that morning, what kind of mechanic is he and how does Felix even  _ know his name-- _

“I’m not getting another car. Order the parts and I’ll contact you in the morning for final details.” Felix’s tone isn’t mean, it’s just very…  _ curt _ . Sylvain knows that it’s a fruitless effort. 

“You know, if you took better care of it, it wouldn’t have even come to this point,” Sylvain blurts. Felix’s face immediately darkens, his face twisting with a snarl and Sylvain remembers Hubert’s words about how Felix was a  _ nasty creature,  _ and he knows that he’s  _ definitely _ said the wrong thing. “Look I--”

_ “Out.” _

Felix could have said nastier words, but that one is dripping with poison and Sylvain knows better than to stick around longer than invited, because there’s a  _ very _ hot forge and  _ very _ dangerous tools laying around, and Felix seems the type of man who would absolutely kill someone and dispose of the body personally. 

“I’ll uh-- Yeah, I’ll order those parts for you. Tomorrow then.” 

Sylvain bolts before Felix can yell at him more, and he really,  _ really _ hopes that he hasn’t fucked this up. 

The job, he means, because Sylvain doesn’t have time for any other distractions.

* * *

“You seem distracted,” Mercedes tells him later that night. They’re at the  _ Pecos Grill _ , chilling in the bar, her hand wrapped around a delicate glass of the hardest fucking whiskey that they carry. She might be sweet and loving, but she’s never been one to do anything by half measures, and that includes drinking liquor.

“Tell me about Felix,” Sylvain demands, fingers wrapped around the stem of an awfully tacky margarita glass, stirring it gently with a straw. 

She blinks at him, momentarily surprised, but then her lips quirk into a small and knowing smile, and immediately Sylvain is on the defensive. “It’s not what you’re thinking,” he says quickly. “I’m just curious. He’s a  _ very _ angry man.”

“Felix has been here forever,” Mercedes finally tells him, swirling her glass around idly. “And by that I mean he’s born and raised here, generations of family before him on the same plot of land kind of born-and-raised.”

“And yes, he’s an angry man,” another voice cuts in. Mercedes and Sylvain look at the barkeep pressed against the counter, indelicately leaning into their conversation. “Sorry, couldn’t help but overhear.” There’s two types of barkeeps-- those who keep to themselves and those who over involve. Sylain’s learned that Hilda is  _ definitely _ the latter. Her hair’s tied up into twin buns and there’s the loud clack of chewing gum, lips smacking around it. 

“He’s all bark and no bite,” Mercedes assures him, but Hilda laughs. Sylvain regards her once more, but the woman rolls her eyes and shrugs. 

“Look, Felix is a weird dude. He usually hates everyone on principal. Whatever happened between the two of you… don’t take it personally.”

“Nothing happened--” But Hilda leaves before he can finish, flittering towards the end of the bar to take the order of a blonde-haired man with an eyepatch. Sylvain’s seen him once or twice, but stayed far,  _ far _ away after witnessing the man have an in-depth conversation with  _ himself _ . 

“So he  _ did _ take the car to you?” Mercedes asks. 

“I was wondering how he knew my name--”

“Everyone knows your name, Sylvain.” He pauses at that, because she’s right. Word travels like wildfire through small towns and he’s been in Pecos for several months now, so he shouldn’t even be surprised. “But yes, I told him to take the car to you. What’s the damage?” 

“Too much.” Sylvain groans at the thought. “Honestly, seeing a classic in such a state, it  _ kills _ me Merce. Does he even know anything about cars? He didn’t know what a timing belt is.”

She looks amused as she says, “Probably not. He doesn’t drive much.” 

“I told him that he should buy a new car. This one’s not really worth fixing, she’s a literal money pit.”

Mercedes frowns and Sylvain is immediately put off. She’s a close friend now, they spend most of their nights together chatting, but he’s  _ never _ seen this look on her face and it’s off-putting in a way that makes his stomach literally crawl. 

“I knew it,” Sylvain bemoans. “I pissed him off.” He’d immediately known he’d said the wrong thing by Felix’s reaction, but by just how much did he fuck this up? “What’s up with him and the car?”

“It’s special,” Mercedes says quietly, lips pursed slightly as her gaze dips far away. Sylvain decides right then and there that he never,  _ ever, _ wants to see this look on her face again. “The person it belonged to was special.”

“Got it. Former girlfriend or something.”

Mercedes is amused by the assumption, but it’s drowned out by the utter  _ sadness _ in her gaze. She isn’t the type to issue any sort of dismissal, which is why Sylvain has come to love her-- genuinely love her-- so much, but he’s learned over the years when it’s appropriate to stop forcing an issue. 

He backs off, taking a large gulp of his drink. “Well, he said to fix it at any cost, so I ordered the parts after I left the forge.” He pauses. “Also--  _ a blacksmith?” _

“Farrier,” she corrects. 

“What’s the difference?” He can tell by her face that it’s a dumb question, but his mind is a little fuzzy with drink and he’s  _ still _ too lazy to google it. 

“He shoes horses, not that he doesn’t have hobbies on the side.” Honestly the idea of the prickly man having any sort of hobby was laughable. 

“Shoes horses--  _ Oh _ .” Sylvain’s not a stupid man, but he can be slow at times. 

“Family business,” she says with mirth, the sparkle settling slowly back into her eye. 

“Yeah, he seemed to know what he was doing.” 

Lithe, corded muscles glistening with sweat and--  _ goddess damn it’s been too long _ . He drowns the rest of his drink with impressive gusto, Mercedes raising her brows at the display. “I hope I haven’t wasted my money. I’m half convinced he won’t show up tomorrow morning.” 

“He will,” Mercedes reassures him. “He’d do anything for that car. 

Sylvain grunts in reply.

“A word of advice from someone who’s known the man his entire life,” Hilda says, sliding in between them once more. She leans over the counter to coyly display her low-cut neckline. “Don’t engage longer than necessary. I like you alive.” Then she winks at Sylvain and he winks back, even though he feels  _ nothing, _ even though he tries. Even if it’d make this entire thing  _ so much easier _ . 

Hilda drops a fresh drink in front of him and he sighs in relief, because he’s way too sober to be dealing with this. Before he can down the drink though, Mercedes reaches out, her fingers soft and warm against his wrist. 

“Sylvain,” she says softly and he caves, taking a small sip through the straw instead. 

“Last one, Merce,” he finally says. “I promise.” 

If this were back-home in Dallas and the end-of-the-night party post state-dinner, he’d be attached at the hip of the most scantily clad woman he could find, downing enough liquor so he could at least try and  _ pretend _ . 

But this isn’t Dallas and as much as he likes Hilda’s margaritas, he likes the comfort of Mercedes’ warm smile and ever understanding patience instead. He won’t wake up in a pile of sheets and naked limbs, more disappointed in himself, than whoever he was with.

Instead he goes back home with Merce and they binge watch reruns of the Bachelorette, while stuffing their faces with the leftovers from the bakery. 

* * *

Sylvain doesn’t bother waiting for Felix the next morning. 

He’s at the shop early again, unlocking the office door at an  _ appalling _ seven AM. His night had been restless once again, but he’s traded angry memories of yelling and slurs, for images of sweaty and flushed skin, rippling muscles and imagined whines, dark hair pooling around shoulders and--

_ Nope, nope, nope _ he needs to stop that right now. 

He drops his bag in the lopsided desk chair and decides to forgo any paperwork, because there’s absolutely no way that he can possibly concentrate on numbers and bank accounts and  _ financing _ . So, by eight-thirty, he’s managed to haul the old Mustang into the Garage proper and hoist her up. 

He pats the hood gently, fingers catching slightly on the rust there. “Pitiful,” he sighs. “If he’s so in love with you, why’s he let you get like this?” The metal is cold under his fingers as he taps at it lightly before pulling back. “Whatever the cost,” he murmurs, echoing Felix’s ridiculous request from the night before. 

Sylvain’s suggestion hadn’t been unreasonable, but Felix had gone from sightly annoyed to angry enough to explode, in the span of several seconds, so clearly there was something  _ more _ there. Mercedes had confirmed it with her comment later in the night that the car was  _ special _ . 

Obviously, Sylvain thinks with a frown, but he doesn’t dwell on it longer than he has to, getting to work on the car. 

Around nine in the morning, there’s a kick to the right front wheel well, and Sylvain curses in surprise, jerking up and knocking his head against the undercarriage where he’d been situated. He slides back on the creeper, rubbing at his forehead with a soft groan, only to meet the face of a  _ surprised _ Felix. 

“It’s before ten and not only are you here, you’re  _ actually _ working?” Felix’s tone is sharp, but it’s not angry, and Sylvain lets out a breath that he wasn’t even aware he’d been holding. He sits up properly, eyes raking over Felix’s form. 

He looks good in loose track pants and a plain navy t-shirt. His hair is pulled back neatly and he looks fresh, despite the apparently permanent circles under his eyes. Sylvain has no idea why he likes the look of them, because on anyone else they’d be ugly little shadows. Sylvain sighs at the sight of him before--

“Goddess, is that coffee?” Felix is holding a carrier with two takeaway cups. 

“What was it you called it last night? A peace offering?” Felix lifts the cardboard slightly, motioning to the office. “I… figured I should apologize for--” But then he sighs, annoyed. “Just take the damn coffee.” He says the words so quietly that Sylvain’s gaze narrows shrewdly. 

“You don’t seem the type to apologize.”

“I’m not.” The testy edge to his voice has crept back in, but then Felix sighs, dragging a spare hand through his bangs, mucking up his neatly styled hair. “Look, let’s just-- let’s get everything settled. I have other things to do today.”

Sylvain pulls himself up properly, wiping at his forehead with a rag and motioning to the office. Once inside, Felix drops the coffee onto the desk before settling into the chair. Sylvain watches Felix finger the worn edge of the splintered wood. He’s not like him, Sylvain realizes, Felix just doesn’t  _ do _ people well. Mercedes had told him, Hilda had told him, even  _ Hubert _ had warned him but… 

Felix looks visibly disturbed at the moment, like he wants to be anywhere else. 

“You’ve tidied it up in here,” Felix finally says. “This office was always a mess.” He must have seen Sylvian’s confused glance, because he adds, “It’s the only garage in town. Do you think I’ve never had a car worked on before?”

Sylvain decides to not tell him that yes, he’d absolutely thought that, moving to open a manilla folder instead. “So the immediate problem is the engine, as I told you last night. The timing belt is what helps time the rotation of the crankshaft and camshaft, so the engine valves close and open at the proper time. So when it--” 

Felix is ignoring him, popping off the lid of his coffee to check it, before taking a sip. 

“Right uh, probably too much info. Point is, the engine’s entirely destroyed, it’s a hard model to find and it’s labor intensive. I wasn’t joking about the seven thousand  _ at least _ .”

“I wasn’t joking about  _ whatever the cost _ .” Felix points to the other cup and Sylvain drops the folder, gabbing at it. “Hubert refused to fix it the way that you do and wouldn’t tell me anything more than  _ an absurd amount of sugar and cream. _ So I just dumped it in there until it didn’t look like coffee anymore. Take it or leave it.” 

Sylvain tips the lid, finding the color of the coffee to  _ look _ satisfactory enough and a quick sip confirms. Felix grimaces, sharing Hubert’s views on how he takes his coffee. Popping the lid back down, Sylvain sighs. “The engine’s just the tip of the iceberg,” he tells Felix. “She’s got  _ so many _ other problems, and all of them make her dangerous to drive.”

“So what’s your point?” 

“How much are you actually willing to spend on her?” Sylvain asks. 

“I said--”

“I  _ know  _ what you said,” Sylvain cuts in. “But promising  _ whatever the cost, _ is vastly different when it comes down to the  _ actual _ numbers. You’re looking at tens of thousands of dollars.” Sylvain pauses. “Look, I’m happy to do the work for you if that’s really what you want, but I’m laying all the cards down here. It’s a  _ lot _ of work and it will be  _ expensive _ . I’m asking this not to be rude, but because I’m honestly curious-- Is she worth it?”

Sylvain expects Felix to get angry like the night before and just leave, but he doesn’t. Felix is quiet as he stares at his coffee cup, like he’s trying to carefully word whatever it is that he’s about to say. 

“I’m not expecting you to understand,” Felix finally starts, suddenly weary and tired and clearly wanting to end the conversation before it properly starts. “But the car is worth everything to me.”

Sylvain is surprised by the quiet sincerity in Felix’s voice. “Alright then,” he says, dropping the folder on the desk between then. “I’ll make a full list of work, compile a price on parts and labor, and I’ll let you know.” 

Felix nods shortly before standing to leave, but Sylvain starts again, making him pause at the door. “You know, you’re my first real customer here. The work on her alone will keep this place afloat for a while.”

Felix sighs, rubbing his fingers across his brow. Sylvain doesn’t know him very well yet, but there’s an inkling that the motion is out of character. “My apology  _ was _ honest. There’s a lot that you don’t know and it’s unfair of me to expect you to.” 

Sylvain has assumed as such. “I know it’s hard for new people to come to a small town like this and just wedge themselves into everyone’s quaint little existence, but I’m happy for the work. So thanks.”

Felix hesitates before saying, “Tch. I guess.” And then he’s gone. 

Sylvain isn’t sure that he’ll ever quite figure the man out, watching the door long after Felix is gone, but there’s a desire there that makes him  _ want _ to. He wants to get to know Felix better, and it’s not his high cheekbones, or silky hair, or those damn muscles. There’s something else that lurks underneath the surface of the harsh exterior, just like everyone else in this damn town, and Sylvain’s determined to figure out what it is. 

But  _ first _ , the car needs a nickname.

**Author's Note:**

> Have questions? A burning need for answers? Have a story idea? Just want to talk Sylvix? Don't forget to check out my [Tumblr](https://missmarquin.tumblr.com/), and drop an ask!
> 
> Also, follow me on [Twitter!](https://twitter.com/HornyBaldFossil)


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